


somehow escape the burning wait

by alismithpdf



Category: SKAM (France)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, M/M, POV Lucas Lallemant, Pining, lucas has a hard time believing good things can stick, no capital letters to be seen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-06-02 17:03:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19445806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alismithpdf/pseuds/alismithpdf
Summary: lucas got used to having eliott around in the quiet moments between shows when they toured together. now that they're apart, he's adrift.





	somehow escape the burning wait

bands like theirs didn’t win awards, not big industry wide ones, not popularly recognised ones, barely people’s choice ones. no one gets into this genre expecting to be drowned in accolades by the wider public, yann said, a few weeks after lucas took up his proposition to sub in as their drummer while they tried to find someone more permanent. and lucas almost preferred it this way, really, was skeptical of the whole idea of regimented industry awards when the industry in question was built on the pulsing erratic foundation of subjectivity, of _trends_. which is why he makes sure to plug his headphones in when he watches intricate teacups being interviewed about their latest win, lest imane overhears and gives him a _look._

alexia sits in the middle of them, the camera close and focusing on her, hair newly dyed to a pastel gradient from blonde to orange to pink, and a sparkly ring on her left hand that catches the light as she waves it around. lucas basks in the few seconds he takes pretending alexia, who is in the middle of the screen, who is talking right at this moment, is the focus of his attention. 

“i was with my girlfriend, well, now fiance, when i heard the news and i _screamed_. our dog was so terrified he bolted into the backyard and refused to come back inside for hours,” she says, laughter lilting her words and inviting the interviewer to laugh as well. she’s good at it, has always easily nudged people, strangers, crowds, into laughter, into comfort, into the idea of friendship. the boys next to her chuckle, and those few basking seconds decidedly end when the camera cuts to a wider shot and the rest of the band come into view.

“she must be so proud of you! chloe, right? did she realise if she didn’t tie you down all the girls would be after you now?”

in any other context lucas would probably be able to spare the brain activity to be annoyed at the question. maybe later he’ll text alexia about it. later, when his insides have stopped fizzing.

he’s wearing that dark denim jacket that sits against his golden skin so well, the sleeves rolled up so his forearms are bare, his muscles, his veins, visible even through the small screen of his phone, one of his hands tapping out a fast beat against his knee, the one with that baffling tattoo lucas still didn’t have a proper explanation for. the host, or maybe alexia or idriss, says something that lucas doesn’t pick up and he grins, chuckles, the sound clear and sparkling through the speakers, shoulders scrunched up a bit and eyes turned into moon crescents (and wouldn’t he be so pleased with the comparison) and the air catches in his throat. jesus fuck, how could anyone be so _beautiful_. he knows that laugh well, from a distance and up close and across rooms and muffled into his neck, his back, his chest. he knows it well but it still makes something inside him glow. glow and ache, his ribs flickering with the strain. it was probably a bad idea to have watched this.

the focus moves to idriss but the camera doesn’t cut to another, closer, angle, so they’re all still visible, cheerful against the studio backdrop. he shifts and one of the badges on his jacket glints in the changed light, winking out at lucas like it _knows_ , knows what feelings are bouncing around the tender parts of his body, knows about the montage that plays almost constantly in a little corner of his head.

he groans and collapses back, lands on his pillow with a little huff. 

fucking eliott.

***

it wasn’t what he expected to be doing if he ever went into music professionally, a piece of his heart still lingered on the piano collecting dust in his most recent apartment, but it’s fine. great, even. the music they made was complex and suffocating and invaded his organs, his muscles, his bones when they played. time folded in on itself so that the only thing that existed was the very moment of playing, the drums steady and sure, the drumsticks a natural, inevitable extension of his hands. 

bands like theirs didn’t win awards, but they weren’t the supporting act anymore, a few weeks into a headlining tour across north america, sold out shows in the bigger cities, the crowd sparking and excited, a rolling wave of interlocking bodies jumping and pushing and screaming. it’s a glow up from the reception they got supporting during their last tour, and lucas settles comfortably into his place behind the drums most nights, the strings holding him up strung tight, the depleted pools of his mind surging with the electricity of the crowd, of the rest of the band, a fantasy of steadiness and completeness that sustains him for however long it takes to get out from public view. he doesn’t have to fool yann anymore, but imane and daphne expect more from him, for some reason, even after all these years, and he’d like to procrastinate the inevitable disappointment as long as possible. 

it didn’t use to be this bad. or, it was, then it wasn’t, and now, on their own tour, intricate teacups on the other side of the country, the paper walls of his foundations curl in, a little, a crease not severe enough to crash everything down, and flattened out when he actually plays music, but still a crease. 

***

it’s temporary, it’s fine. just adjusting. 

he’s practised in change, and in a better position than he was years ago, before yann skipped confidently over the time, distance, restlessness ~~hopelessness~~ that had split them up after high school and gave him a new place to swing towards. 

it’s just been a while since he’s had to adjust to leaving something good behind. and it’s only been a month since he had to crawl out of that bed, reluctantly, painfully, dodging those clinging hands, and hop on a plane to meet the others, to start their current tour. barely any time at all. 

it gets bad this time of year regardless of any other factors anyway.

he’ll adjust.

***

it started like this: 

despite hopeful promises to stay friends, to keep in touch, to not let something as simple as distance rust the years of friendship between them, when lucas moves to marseille after high school, a different country, a different time zone, the threads keeping him and yann together stretched and thinned until they snapped.

everyone he knew, which admittedly wasn’t many people, stayed in the states, but he had an aunt in france, half a world away, and after the clusterfuck of his last year, bad luck piled onto shitty family piled onto the sharp stares that cut lines into his skin, his skull, until he was choking on it all, painted onto his insides, he grabbed onto the last lifeline he had and didn’t look back. 

then two years out of an engineering degree, roaming between apartments, jobs, countries, something furious and unsettled under his skin and throwing him from place to place, yann called with an offer, two years after they’d exchanged their last flimsy words, and lucas locked up his apartment and landed on unsteady legs back in america. 

lavender on fire had yann, imane and daphne but was missing a drummer, and the music they played, angry and dense and hypnotic, was an approximate fit for the empty abandoned chasms making rivers through the semblance of a life, of a person, he’d crafted over the years.

apparently imane had a brother lucas had never met or heard of in the limited span of time they'd spent together during high school. a brother who was also in a band, and lucas’ initiation party (as daphne had called it) was the two bands hanging out at imane's apartment, jazz smoothing over any gaps in conversation and an almost confusingly wide array of drinks on offer. after so many years an inevitable sheen of awkwardness covered every interaction he had with the people he used to know. at least, that’s what it felt like, a strange uncomfortable distance shoved between him and the others, made particularly obvious whenever he was asked about what his life looked like now and his desperate attempts to glossen his descriptions up, cultivate an image that would explain why he left and stayed away. 

yann, amazing unfailing yann, didn’t call him out even though the gaps seemed obvious to lucas, and would probably be obvious to him as well. just said, “sounds sick, bro. you should meet my boyfriend, he did a semester in prague and wants to go back, you can wax poetic about it together. hey, remember when your mum gave us…”

this is where he first caught sight of eliott, a strangely defining moment in a life full of blur and easy transition, slipping from one chapter to the next with barely a bookmark to decorate the change. but there was eliott in deep conversation with idriss, leg moving unconsciously to the beat of the music, and all lucas could think was _oh._

a few hours later eliott had moved out onto the balcony alone, and lucas slipped out after him, easily removing himself from a conversation about things that had happened after he’d left, releasing him from any obligation to contribute. eliott was wrapped up in a bomber jacket to shield against the cold but inexplicably kept his jeans rolled up, ankle bones exposed. which on the one hand was vaguely confusing and hilarious, but lucas hadn’t lived this long without picking up on clothing cues, that, intentionally or not, acted as a subtle signal to others that the wearer was many things, but straight wasn’t one of them. 

“eliott, right?” he asked, leaning against the railing and flicking his eyes across his profile, moonlight dripping down and painting him silver. eliott shrugged and shifted his body to face lucas, curious but unsurprised, a faint smile curling into his cheek. 

"right. and you're the new drummer, lucas, no?" he answered, words forming a question but intonation certain. 

"yes," he confirmed anyway. "did you get bored of my party?" 

"just needed some air. no one will miss me if i'm gone for a little while. you on the other hand…" 

he shook his head. "no one will miss me either. i'm just a sub drummer."

eliott’s eyebrows rose, profoundly doubtful, but just said, "okay, lucas." 

_lucas_. did he say everyone’s name like that, something private and weighty shaping the syllables? he bit his lip, fought the urge to let his gaze wander again. it was best not to dwell on the thought, really. false hope never helped anybody. 

"what do you play?" he asked, not the most interesting question but it would prolong the conversation and therefore a worthy sacrifice. 

"guitar." automatically, helplessly, lucas found his hands in the moon stained night and lingered, large, strong, smudged with something dark in places. he swallowed. "and vocals, sometimes, if i'm needed." 

~~who wouldn't need you?~~ "alexia has primary custody of the mics?" 

he barked out a short laugh. "exactly. she takes better care of them than i can." lucas smiled, let the conversation lull, faint saxophone notes slipping into the air, and eliott’s eyes, silver coins, sweeping, inquisitive and clinging, over his face and lower. “you’ve been away for a while, everyone was saying.”

there were a lot of ways to answer that and still be considered honest, the prompt less a cage and more a sky. deliberately, maybe. “i have family in france.” he landed on. “getting away seemed like the best thing to do.”

“ahhh, okay. i get that.” he nudged their arms together, voice oddly bright, a noticeable gap where judgement could have easily slid into place. “i’m from france, too. paris.” eliott pronounced it with the accent, and warmth sparked in his chest, a little, a few embers lighting up. and maybe it was mutual because the silver in eliott’s eyes softened, molten. 

lucas smirked over at him, let his accent bleed through. “typical.” 

eliott grinned back, shrugged, nudged their arms together again and stayed close after. 

***

they get recruited onto a compilation album of artists covering songs of other genres, and are given frank ocean, who lucas never really cared about but yann gets excited, a grin brightening his features and pulling them into conversations about what changes they can make to the arrangement, messing around with instruments in the empty moments that fill up time between shows and sleep. 

“i think you should take over the vocals, yann,” daphne says sitting at the table and mixing up something green in a small jar. the tv next to her is still frozen on a menu screen from when yann declared him hopelessly incompetent a few hours ago. 

lucas pulls up eliott 🌻 on his phone. _where are you?_

“are you sure? you’re our main singer for a reason.” yann’s diplomatic voice doesn’t quite cover up the bubbles of eagerness underneath. 

_washington. i dont remember what sun feels like  
_ _physically at least. theres a cool dubstep scene here so metaphorically my life has never been brighter_

_that has to be a lie_

“it’s not a big deal. so that’s sorted, yeah? can we move onto the instrumentals?”

_which part?_

_all of it! dubstep doesn’t belong in the natural elements, it belongs in closed rooms with artificial darkness so no one can know your identity_

“lucas have you thought about your part much?”

he snaps his head up. outside ubiquitous green fields stream past and the sky is bruised purple and grey, swollen with the promise of thunder, lightening. “uh, some. don’t worry.”

“i’m not _worried,_ i was just wondering.”

his phone buzzes. eliott’s response is a selfie, a burnt orange beanie on his head, a hand over his heart, and expression enormously betrayed, features exaggerated like a silent film actor. 

“who are you texting?” with imane’s voice comes her sitting on the couch with him, far enough away that she can’t read his phone but close enough he can see every hint of judgemental adjacent curiosity on her face. 

“no one.”

“uh huh,” she says, throwing him a dubious look then disappearing behind a thick hardcover book with complex equations on the cover.

_make all the faces you want but that wasn’t a denial_

_god herself told me she gave us the tools to create it after she realised the sun was going to explode_  
_or whatever its going to do  
so that we would always have LIGHT to SUSTAIN and HEAL us_

“bro i haven’t seen you smile like that since you had a crush on mr perez in 5th grade,” yann says.

“i - everyone had a crush on him.”

“not really my point.”

_you’ve been a prophet this whole time and didn’t tell me? rude_

_payback for when you didnt tell me you can play the doctor who theme on piano_  
_or that your ex was chatting me up  
or the december thing_

“lucas?” 

_i did tell you about julian. it’s not my fault you didn’t believe me_

“it’s no one. just - a friend. we booked studio time for in a few days, right? i’ll show you what i’ve been thinking for it then.”

_youre way too hot for him. of course i thought you were joking_

_funny_

when he looks back up yann’s eyebrows are cosy neighbours with his hairline and daphne is sends a weighty look at his phone before glancing at imane with wide eyes. imane who times a sigh with flipping one of the pages of her book. in another life, or maybe this one in a few decades, she could make a living intimidating grad students whose only crimes would be trying to add a few letters to the end of their names, or another couple lines to their resume.

“guys, if he won’t tell us we should just move on. is there anymore official business, daphy?”

_wasnt kidding_

“oh! yes there is. did everyone see the plan for a european leg of the tour?” her face brightens, hands flapping and almost knocking over the lidless jar. “lucas! you can show us all around france and everywhere else you’ve been living. it’ll be so much fun! i’ve always wanted to go and we’ll see so much of it! maybe...

right, of course. he’d tucked that piece of information in a dusty corner of his mind for future lucas to deal with, but the temporal distance between future and current lucas were rapidly collapsing. the remaining stops left on this tour seemed unending, the final show invisible, fallen off of the edge of his understanding. anything beyond that, where he would stay, how he'd fill up his time, was fuzzy. everything except a lurid eliott shape in the middle, glowing golden under lucas' tentative optimism. if eliott would have him, that is. hopefully he would. even if not in the same way they had been, just being in his orbit, being around to hear him ramble and complain and laugh, watching his meandering winsome process of creation, whether it involve charcoal, ink, paint, or camera lenses and ideal lighting, would be enough, would be a distracting sweetening brush along the ragged edges of his life. 

_stop that_

if eliott would let him take up space in his life again. he can dream about hope all he wants but in reality him and optimism have a precarious oscillating bond. and not one he trusts dearly.

💙

***

they orbited each other on the road, at first at a reasonable distance but then swinging tighter and tighter until they were hardly ever out of reach if they could help it. the others must've noticed _something_ but no one ever brought it up, not to them and not where they could have heard. they danced around each other for the month between curious whispers in imane's balcony and the first stop of the tour, an after party that inextricably linked them, trajectories tied together. 

the club, bar, restaurant, whatever it was in the real world had been privately hired for the night to wrap everyone up in good spirits and fond memories whether they liked it or not before travelling together could start tearing tiny cuts into the fabric holding them all together. lucas had never toured before, but apparently shit had a tendency to happen. a direct quote from one of the roadies, left up to lucas to elaborate with his own imagination and relative tendency towards pessimism. 

regardless, the club, bar, restaurant, whatever had a ton of back rooms filled with miscellaneous things, including an old record player, an inexplicable large bunch of fake sunflowers, and an in tune baby grand piano, sitting shiny and tempting in a dark corner next to a large dirty window, the streetlights outside valiantly attempting to shine through the grime, only some of them succeeding.

it looked like the one at his aunt’s house, with which he’d spent countless hours, sleepless nights and stress filled afternoons, those mornings when occasionally marianne would guide him through some of the more complicated pieces she had, the sheet music fainty rumbled with age and use, the black notation elegant and trusting that the player would do it justice. it’d been one of the harder things to let go when he moved out, and one of his few real tethers to the world. that piano, that house, and his unwavering, kind, versatile aunt that let him begin again with her after her sister died and was frayed with her own grief. 

he sat down at it without thinking, the scattered light just enough to see the keys, barely touched with dust and satisfyingly heavy under his fingers. he ran through scales first, let his fingers, his muscles, reacclimatise. the resulting notes familiar and sure, pristine even though music from the main room bled through the corridors, refused to get caught on the uneven wooden floors. scales, then proper pieces compelled from memory and improvising when it failed. his cheeks bunched, the knots in his back slithered loose and his hands kept playing, conscious thought barley necessary. his mum always said after a certain point, after enough time, enough practice, enough knowledge, the body and that silent part of his brain knew what to do better than he would, that it was best to let them take over. after all those years she was still right. 

a cough, a whispered _putain_ , the air bending around a new person and lucas jolted, blinked back into himself, into his reality. the party. all the people _at_ the party. when he looked to the side the doorway was cut up with a shadow in the middle, tall with wild spikes where their hair would be. _putain_. 

“eliott?” he asked, really only half a question

“yeah, hey.” he walked further into the room to where proper light could touch him. “you disappeared, i thought you’d been kidnapped.”

“kidnapped? by who?”

he shrugged, leaned against the piano, let them see each other properly. “who knows. maybe one of your alternative selves snapped you into their dimension.”

“yeah? why would they want me?” he shuffled to one side of the bench, and eliott took it as the invitation it was, settled down beside him with a small smile. 

“maybe they needed a double for something. to go to work while they take off to go skydiving, or terrorising children with badly aimed scooters.” his smile went crooked, more of a smirk. “not every lucas would be as much of a mature adult as you.”

lucas rolled his eyes, willed his smile to calm the fuck down. “fuck off. i don’t know how you got yann to tell you all that shit but he’s being punished for it.” 

“hmmm,” was all he said, fingers gently flirting over the keys. one of his knees brushed against lucas’, almost like an accident, and didn’t move away. he peeked out at lucas from the corner of his eye, hesitant, careful, the set of his mouth betraying some uncertainty, so lucas pressed back softly and watched as eliott’s face relaxed, something pleased unfurling across his features. "you're a drummer."

lucas huffed out a laugh. "sometimes."

"i've never heard it, that last one you played. what's it called?" 

lucas bit his lip. eliott was very close, their touching knees had somehow progressed to their thighs pressed together lightly, phantom heat from his body sinking into lucas. his heart was a fast staccato beat in his chest, his insides fizzing, fingers restless. "it's by riopy."

eliott made a small breathy sound and shifted, straddling the bench so they were face to face, the room quiet, air electric, fervent, the world bending, shrinking, leaving only them under the stars. slowly the corner of eliott's mouth curled up, pink and soft and demanding lucas' attention. "you didn't answer my question." 

all the air left his body, his nerves steeled, inspirited. whatever force that had been encouraging them to stay at a distance for just a little while more usurped. he ticked his gaze up, eliott's eyes a storm begging to be ruined in, and softly skimmed his fingers up eliott's arm, supple and firm, across his shoulder and settled into place against the warm skin of his neck, thumb caressing his jawline. under his hand eliott's throat rolled when he swallowed. "it's called i love you," he breathed out. 

a moment passed, suspended in infinity, where they looked at each other, the phrase dissolving into the air, into their minds. 

then

eliott’s hands cradled his face, kind and earnest, and he had just enough time to think _fuck, finally, please_ when their lips brushed together, soft and cautious, then deeper, insistent, his world sweet and syrupy thick, and didn’t think any more. their mouths opened, the kiss hot and slow, skin sparking where they touched. lucas’ hands winded around his waist and slid him closer, please, be closer, while eliott tilted his jaw to kiss him deeper, better, the feeling spilling through his body. lucas sank his hands into his hair, tugged gently and eliott made a small sound he wanted to hear over and over again.

later, his lungs tight, the light sparkling through his veins too much, he pulled away and tried not to react too visibly to the low protesting noise eliott made. it was much harder not to respond to his massive smile, his restless hands capturing every inch of skin in reach before landing over lucas’ chest, which was still heaving, a little. 

smiling that big eliott’s eyes almost disappeared. helplessly he lightly brushed his thumb underneath, the skin soft and overwhelmingly fragile. 

“i’ve wanted to do that for a really long time,” eliott murmured eventually, smile soft and eyes clear, blissful, and steady, like he’d happily never look at another thing again. 

breathing usually wasn’t this hard. 

“oh yeah?” he managed to say. eliott nodded solemnly, and leaned forward to steal another kiss off his lips, two, three, dragged his lips along his cheek, to his ear. 

“really,” he whispered, breath warm on the shell of his ear, and lucas shivered.

“me too.” 

somehow lucas’ hands had found their way to eliott’s, making senseless patterns along his veins, the creases along his palm and fingers, capable of so much, almost magic when in action and persuading strings to do his bidding. eliott must’ve realised too, because he clasped them, palms together, fingers interlocking. 

orbits tangled. 

***

imane gets a string of messages from alexia, photos, a progressively dramatic frown in each consecutive one. in the background idriss and eliott are caught sometimes, laughing, fucking around on their phones waiting, occasionally looking into the camera alongside alexia, towering over her. 

they’ve got two free days between shows, a luxury of free time and hotel beds and lucas not having to leave his room, to talk to another soul if he doesn’t want to. in another state intricate teacups apparently have their schedules stuffed with PR, a string of interviews and radio shows, the kind of days that drag and blur.

that night yann goes out with daphne and imane, leaving lucas alone in their room. he rescues his phone from the void of blankets.

eliott 🌻  
_had a good day enlightening the masses on the joys of indie pop?_

a few seconds later his phone buzzes, rings, and he wastes all of half a second before accepting the call.

“i hope you know this is why people hate metal bands,” eliott says in greeting.

“because we have taste?”

“so superior, lucas. so superior.”

lucas snorts. “superior but right. and are you going to answer my question?”

eliott sighs, tired but not heavy. “it was fine. and yours?”

“we have a couple days off. i’m gorging myself on room service.”

a laugh reaches his ears. “the high life. if that’s all you’re doing want to watch a movie together?” 

“are you willing to start our shrek marathon?”

eliott groans from across the line. “please no, not tonight. i need something with depth.”

“nothing else happened today to, uh, remind your brain it’s capable of complex thought?”

“that was weak, lucas, i’m disappointed.”

“yeah and every time you put it off it breaks my heart just that little bit more, so we’re both on the same wavelength.”

a noise that could possibly be in the shape of the word ‘good’ floats through the phone softly, but eliott starts talking before he can latch onto it. “if we’re staying away from shrek what do you want to watch?” 

it’s a generous offer, but he knows there are at least ten possible options resting on the edge of eliott’s tongue, all ones that he wants to watch more than lucas wants to watch anything at this point, and who is he to deprive eliott of, well, anything, really. “you can pick something, as long as it’s not super tragic.”

eliott makes a sound like he agrees. “it’s too nice a night for tragedy.”

through the window he can see rain battering the road, trees, unlucky bystanders, and his ankle still twinges a bit from when he twisted it a few days ago, a soft throb moving up his leg if he moves it weirdly, but eliott isn’t wrong, a soft balm coating his senses the longer they talk. “exactly. so?”

eliott hums through the phone, and a cruel part of his brain sends signals, a soft shiver travelling across his skin, to remind him of what the sound feels like up close, a reminder he does not fucking need right now. “did you ever see moonlight?”

moonlight: some oscar fiasco, and some people he followed reporting the amount of tears they shed watching it. he and yann had made plans to see it but something had come up, parents, friends, a party, a girl, and they never did. “uh, no. isn’t it sad?”

“ehh, kind of. but it’s not only sad, it’s not a tragedy. i think you’ll like it, and if not, next time we do this we’ll save princess diana?”

um. what. “princess diana?”

“...is that not the girl from shrek?” 

lucas barks out a laugh. “fiona.” 

“close enough.” 

“there are some people who would disagree.”

“well, if you’re one of them can you disagree after the credits?”

lucas melts further back into his pillow nest. “deal. will this movie make me cry? i don’t know if my body can handle more crying right now.”

silence follows his words for way too many seconds. fuck. he winces, a little, to himself. maybe eliott would do him the courtesy of ignoring - 

“ _more_ crying? lucas -”

“eliott,” he interrupts, voice a little harder, a little more wrung out, than it had been a moment ago. eliott stops talking, the silence between them carefully balanced. lucas sighs. “it’s fine, i’m fine, it was mostly a joke. later, yeah?”

“i - okay. um, you will probably cry at some points, but it’ll be worth it.” 

“i can live with that. okay, where can i find it?”

***

because sometimes the universe did him favours, intricate teacups recorded a cover of ‘straight to you’ with eliott performing the bulk of the vocals. a video accompanied it, the three of them settled into a recording studio, eliott and alexia crooning into the mics about the shuddering, inevitable, sublime end of the world.

_well, i'll run, babe, but i'll come running_  
_straight to you_  
_for i am captured  
straight to you_

eliott’s eyes snap to the camera on the last line, demolishing the distance between him and the viewer, making lucas heart leap into his throat, face hot. him and every other person who watches it, probably, going off of the comments underneath. watching it does things to his chest, an uncomfortable truth that threatens to shatter the thin veil of lies that will make these next few months bearable, so he sticks to the recording, racking up a startlingly high play count as the tour lengthens.

the song burns a mark in his phone, listening to it in hotel gyms, sweat sending bullets down his spine, in his bed on the bus when slumber brushes a kiss against his forehead but focuses her honest attention on his band mates, leaving him frustrated and unguarded and alone.

he needs to stop thinking about it. neither of them made promises, the knowledge that their being together was temporary an ugly knife in the air, ready and willing to descend if they ever forgot. but touring was so much better with eliott there, eager to test out lucas’ experimental cocktail inventions and paying him back with incoherent ingredient combinations, mostly awful but sometimes kind of amazing. hands always smudged with ink or graphite, the adjacent creations equal parts lovely and absurd, fantastic in how little he restrained himself, the results as genuine and clever and inspired as their creator. arms always ready to accept lucas, when things were coruscating with bare skin and laughter, but also when his brain got too heavy or scattered, eliott pulling him into his small bunk and curling around him, a grounding presence along his back, curious fingers on his skin. who let lucas return the favour when eliott’s shoulders hunched as he tried to shrink down, anxiety buzzing along his bones, hazy darkness treacle thick around his heart. unexpected but ardent understanding weaving between them slowly but unfailingly. a net, flexible and unquestionable, tailored just for them. 

but it doesn’t matter. because they’re apart, and with his band getting more exposure, more fans, more success, it’s unlikely they’ll have a lot of time together in the gaps of them being in the same space. eliott hasn’t even alluded to the possibility of something more, something kindling, something _perpetuating,_ anyway. 

he wants - a lot of things. wants. wishes. thoughts seeping into other universes, alternate decisions, different realities. maybe he should go back to marseille after he's done here to burn away his time off, sink into his aunt's house, familiar haunts, old friends. his chest aches at the thought, memories flickering like a slideshow. he could surprise marianne, be there for her birthday, maybe convince her, _finally_ , that her sketch he loves, an octopus with bunches of flowers in each tentacle, tangled together like snakes, actually was a perfect tattoo idea, mari, and she should do it herself and see in real time what a good design it was. france was a place of nurturing, of healing, for him. it has been since he was eighteen, and as far as he was concerned would continue to be until the last sparks of life puffed out on his mortal coil.

it was exactly what he needed right now, stable ground to walk on, time to fall back into himself again. the empty pools in his bones weren't always there, and he should try _something_ to encourage some regrowth, something that isn't playing live, or a soft haired boy with clever hands. 

so he should go back. _will_ go back. 

the song ticks over, the first bars queuing up again for the nth time. 

_this is the time of our great undoing  
_ _this is the time that i'll come running_

maybe if he tries sleeping upside down, feet by his pillow, his body will finally succumb to exhaustion. maybe. 

***

when he gets off stage there is a single text waiting for him, his screen informing him eliott 🌻💙 has sent an image attachment. a selfie, maybe, or some excessively adorable animal, charming graffiti, a beautiful view. he opens it, though, and its lines of text, a lot of them. an excerpt, then, of something he’s reading, words suffocating enough to share. the font is small enough that he has to zoom in. 

_i am reduced to a thing that wants virginia. i composed a beautiful letter to you in the sleepless nightmare hours of the night, and it has all gone: i just miss you, in a quite simple desperate human way. you, with all your un-dumb letters, would never write so elementary a phrase as that; perhaps you wouldn’t even feel it. and yet i believe you’ll be sensible of a little gap. but you’d clothe it in so exquisite a phrase that it would lose a little of its reality. whereas with me it is quite stark: i miss you even more than i could have believed; and i was prepared to miss you a good deal. so this letter is just really a squeal of pain. it is incredible how essential to me you have become. i suppose you are accustomed to people saying these things. damn you, spoilt creature; i shan’t make you love me any the more by giving myself away like this — but oh my dear, i can’t be clever and stand-offish with you: i love you too much for that. too truly. you have no idea how stand-offish i can be with people i don’t love. i have brought it to a fine art. but you have broken down my defences. and i don’t really resent it._

when lucas comes back into himself he’s sitting on the floor, curling over his phone like a shield, eyes wet.

fuck. 

without thinking it through, psyching himself out of it, he swipes around on his phone and holds it up to his ear, stumbles through the greetings, debates whether or not to bring it up. this is _eliott_ , dreamy, romantic eliott, sweet as raw honey, throwing his love onto everyone and everything. lucas' stomach flutters treacherously at the words, but they don't necessarily mean what he wants them to. 

“what are you up to?”

“eh, just walking around, excess energy, you know. this city is pretty sweet, though. we have to come back here when we're both free." 

"yeah? they hiding the secrets of the universe in the community pool?" 

eliott snorts. "almost. i found a local chocolate place and oh my _god_ , lucas."

"that good?"

"you have no idea. they've ruined me for chocolate forever. _and_ they have your favourite." 

"ginger?" he asks, surprised and arguably too eagerly, a bright note in his voice that yann would tease him about if he heard. 

"yeah, and it's amazing. i wanted to send you some before i remembered how annoying that would be."

lucas snorts even as a grin grows unbidden across his face. "i love how demonstrative you are. i’m truly swooning from the effort you make to show me you care."

lucas can almost hear eliott roll his eyes. "i _told_ you we'll come back. and it'll be better then too."

"you won't be too busy crafting your next award winning album?"

"ha. uh, no, no worries about that. there's always time for you,” he says, something odd and hesitance in his voice.

"and chocolate." 

"and chocolate," eliott agrees. “obviously. so, uh, when is this leg done?”

lucas does the math. “soon, about a month. we finish in new york. then, um, some time off then europe for a few months."

"... is that good? i thought it would be but your voice is weird."

"it's good, of course it's good. i love this job, and we'll be playing a few festivals which will be fun. and i've missed france, honestly, we’ll only be playing a few shows there but it’ll still feel good to go back. it's just…"

"yeah?"

"i don't know. i have a feeling. something… unsettled in my chest, or ribs or something, like there’s something missing, i guess. or whatever." he cringes, grateful eliott can’t see him, too honest, too transparent. eliott’s answering silence feels - significant. knowing. "what about you? how much longer?"

"only a couple weeks! then it's over."

"you sound… very excited about that." 

silence, considering, not empty, and then, "can i tell you a secret?" 

~~you can tell me anything~~. "of course." 

"the band’s taking a break for a bit after this tour. a few years, probably.”

“seriously?” 

“yeah. we’re all a bit tired. alexia wants to start her marriage off with her and chloe not being split up across the country, or world. and i have a film degree to finish, back in paris.”

"you're - you're going back to france, then? when?" he asks, vaguely unbelieving, heart gently sprinting. 

"the semester starts in a few months, so..." 

“oh.” 

“yeah.”

“i didn’t - i’m happy for you, really. i didn’t mean to sound like it’s a bad decision. i was just surprised.”

“i know, lucas, don’t worry. i’m really excited, actually. i love film more than i love doing this, i miss being able to devote myself to it. and i miss france, too. a break will be good. i think i’ve probably already experienced the best this has to offer, anyway.”

“yeah?” he asks, and they both politely ignore the catch in his voice. 

“yeah,” eliott answers, quieter than before. “truly, is there anything better than touring with the world’s first floral doom metal band?”

laughter bubbles up involuntarily. “that was one song.” it was more like four songs, really, but whatever. anyone who thought nature wasn't metal was clearly a fucking idiot. 

“it’s literally in your band name, lucas.” 

"you really want to start comparing band names, demaury?" 

a breathless giggle reaches his ears. maybe he should've made this a video call. he loves that laugh, loves it even more when he can see it. "touché." 

the conversation falls silent, comfortable, only their breaths tethering them together, not quite in sync. he closes his eyes, gathers some courage, some honesty. _but you have broken down my defences. and i don't really resent it._

"hey, eliott?"

"yeah?"

"my favourite time on the road was being with you. it’s not the same at all, now. doesn't even compare."

“well,” this time eliott’s voice is choked up, stuffed with cotton. “maybe when you’re back in france i can join you, again. like old times.”

_oh._

“that might be pretty soon, then.”

“you - really?” he sounds confounded, but not enough to overthrow the glints of something more positive underneath. lucas tries really hard to not put a name on whatever that shining glint may be. 

he smiles, knows it will shine through the phone but helpless to stop it. “i told you, i miss france.” 

***

they stumble backstage, two weeks left until their final show, and there’s a figure waiting for him, tawny and tall and taut, fingers hovering over his bottom lip, leaning against the wall. it takes an embarrassing amount of time for lucas to stop lingering over his profile enough to notice idriss is there too, standing with his arms wide as if presenting himself. imane hugs him, voice bright as they greet each other, and eliott’s head snaps up, gaze skittering until they find lucas hanging back after the others. his knitted brows relax as he smiles and detaches himself from the wall, shoulders rising in a happy scrunch. lucas is vaguely aware of the others moving on somewhere else, of yann saying something to him with a large grin, most of his focus on the bounce of eliott’s walk, the scatter of moles on his jaw.

"what are you doing here?"

predictably, he shrugs, properly this time, stops just short of arm distance. “we have some time off. idriss said he missed seeing you all play. i, uh.” he coughs, and lucas’ heart tugs. “i just missed you. _miss_ you.

"you do?" his voice cracks a little, echoing the feeling spreading across his chest.

eliott laughs, somewhat frustrated, unbelieving, head tilting upwards. "of course i do. all i do is think about you and when we were touring and what it'd be like now if we were still together. do - " 

"i didn't know i was allowed to miss you," lucas cuts in, breath short. because it’s true, even after their last conversation. he’s learned not to trust vague allusions, idle plans about the future. 

"what do you mean?" comes eliott’s careful reply after a few moments of silence. 

"we were never, it wasn't solid or - named or anything. i didn't know if you still, what i was, really, to you."

"i didn't - you felt like smoke, sometimes, like one wrong move would strangle whatever we were, so i didn't want to push or, i don’t know, cement us. i knew we wouldn't be touring together forever. _ephemeral right from the start,”_ eliott half sings the last part, a line right out of one of their latest songs, a single they’d released after lavender on fire had left. 

the air around him gets heavy as he tries to digest that. it’d never - he hadn’t let himself linger long over that line, over the unexpectedly raw way eliott sang it, almost out of place in a band like theirs except nothing eliott touched ever felt out of place or accidental, the very act of his claiming it automatically meant it was worth something, was real, was threaded into place in a way no one could argue. 

eliott’s eyes are steady on his, gentle but not entirely transparent. careful, hesitant, and maybe lucas hasn’t been the only one feeling that hollow tug in his chest, connected to a man far away with his own plans, own priorities. he takes a step closer, he has to say something to take away the reserve in his eyes. the idea that eliott, _eliott_ , might have been in pain because of the distance, too, is ludicrous, agonising, intolerable. his stomach twists.

"i miss you, too. fuck. i've had your nick cave cover on repeat for ages. all i've wanted since i left your bed is to come back to you. even if - in whatever way you'd have me," he adds on quickly, when eliott’s eyes grow wide. 

"lucas," he says almost mournful, crumbling the small space between them, hands cradling his jaw, thumbs brushing over his cheeks, and how is this happening. "how hard is it to believe i want the same thing, that i want you, now, tomorrow, next month, forever. this isn't - you kissed me on a piano bench and ruined me for everyone else.”

and there’s nothing - his mouth opens, eyes wide - what possible response could he have to that? his bones feel loose as he somersaults for words, but none of them stick. he’d spent the last few months stubbornly convincing himself of all sorts of things, constructing a house that’s folding in on itself at eliott’s words. _i want you i want you i want you._ thankfully, perfectly, eliott takes mercy on him, and tilts their foreheads together, demands only one thing from him. "okay?" 

"okay," lucas confirms, gravelly, shaky. that, he can do. later, when he feels more stable, when he can trust the foundation of _them_ is grown from something stronger than paper and promises, later he can say more.

"okay.” eliott does something that might be a nod. “can i please kiss you now?" 

lucas starts nodding before eliott finishes his sentence, standing on his toes and wrapping his arms around his neck, drawing him closer, and kisses him first. his lips are soft, yielding, and eliott makes a soft noise, hands sliding down to clutch at lucas’ waist and hold him closer, the press of their chests together, firm and unmistakable, delicious its absence. their lips slide together slow and warm, hypnotising, every atom of his body humming, pleased, settled, _home._ it’s only been a few months that they’ve been apart, unable to kiss and touch. a few months stretching into eternity now he has eliott back in his arms, and maybe this is what love feels like. 

eliott softens the kiss then pulls back entirely, eyes closed, mouth bruised and lucas feels his chest split open, a ragged chasm through which chips of his heart fall through like a rain of flower petals, directly into the man in front of him. eyes still closed, eliott tugs him closer, _closer_ , like maybe he knows what just happened, and lucas falls willingly into the curve of his neck, safe and familiar; a tether, to the world.

**Author's Note:**

> the excerpt eliott texted him is part of a letter vita sackville-west wrote to virginia woolf. title from hozier's 'someone new".
> 
> if anyone is curious, i imagine intricate teacups to be kind of like peking duk, or safia, and lavender on fire being a bit like black sabbath's earlier stuff.
> 
> thank you for reading!  
> i'm on tumblr [ here ](https://without-tenderness.tumblr.com)


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